Nathan Garrideb's House
by lorrablindadata
Summary: A case John has written up for his personal diary, rather than his blog, so that he can be as self-indulgent as he likes. An exaggerated version of "The Three Garridebs". It is not explicitly Johnlock but could be interpreted as so.


**This is the first fic I've written in years! I hope you don't mind that I haven't gone into the details of the case but The Three Garridebs is such an odd one and doesn't easily update, so I was just lazy with it really. I have italicised the line that is taken directly from the story.  
>I do not own any of these characters.<strong>

Often, when a case we have been working on has been solved, I write it up and post it on my blog. The purpose of this is three-fold. Firstly to indulge the wishes of my therapist, secondly for the benefit of peoplewho are interested in this sort of thing and thirdly to advertise my friend's remarkable skills. If it weren't for my blog, we wouldn't be earning anywhere near a living. However this case is different and I am writing it up for my benefit only. For one thing it was not a case that made a lot of use of Sherlock's deductive skills and for another he would inevitably accuse me of romanticising the events even more than I usually do. He just wants the facts; he wants his genius to shine through. He doesn't want it muffled by drama or sentiment. Besides, if I published this … his ego might inflate even more. Part of my duty as his friend is to let him know that while he may be fantastic at his job, he's also one of the most infuriating people to ever have walked this earth. I'll relieve myself of that duty for now.

Since this is not for the benefit of the public, I have no qualms in skipping the beginning of the case. We can join the story as Sherlock and I are hiding behind a curtain in the house of a man called Nathan Garrideb. We were waiting for an American who had been passing himself off as a long-lost relative of our client in order to gain access to his house and his possessions, when in fact back in the USA he was a wanted man. I was completely in the dark as to what he was after but it wasn't something I needed to know. I was there because there was a possibility that this could get dangerous and I am the person that Sherlock relies on to keep him safe. In return for this I get to experience the adventure and excitement that I've been craving since being invalided home from the war. That's why we work. That's why we are, for the most part, inseparable.

But hiding behind a curtain. Although it was a necessary course of action it didn't stop us feeling like children playing Sardines. We caught each other's eye and had to stifle a giggle. His usually stern face changes so dramatically when he smiles and although he does it often, it's always a slight surprise to see his features soften.  
>"John," he whispered, suddenly authoritative. "We have to stay quiet; I think I can hear him."<p>

The man we were waiting for entered the room and headed for the bookcase, which obscured him from our view. Sherlock lightly touched my hand to let me know that this is when we needed to move. I held tightly to my shotgun as we lightly made our way across the floor and towards the American, whom we were certain was also armed.

"Stop!" There was silence, and then a gunshot. I felt a searing pain in my chest. I looked down and saw only blood before collapsing to the floor and writhing in agony. Sherlock quickly disarmed my attacker then knelt down beside me. His defences were down, his eyes were wide. He was scared.

"John! I promise you, Mr. Winter, if you have killed my friend then you will not leave this country alive. Phone an ambulance. NOW."

He did as he was told before running out the door, but Sherlock made no move to stop him. Instead he grabbed a pillow to put under my head and made sure that I was staying conscious. He gingerly reached for my hand. It wasn't something he would normally do, but he knew that I would find it a comfort. And he was right. He explained to me, as if trying to detach himself from the situation, that it didn't matter that Winter had run away because Scotland Yard would find him. But all the while he kept hold of my hand, slightly stroking it every now and then. I could feel him shaking.

The next thing I knew I was lying in a hospital bed, aching slightly. Mrs Hudson was snoring softly in a chair beside me and as soon as I adjusted to my surroundings and built up the energy I lay my hand on her arm. She awoke quietly, her eyes lighting up as she realised that I was awake and smiling.  
>"My poor boy, you gave us such a fright! Are you okay?" She kissed me on the forehead as I assured here that I was fine.<p>

"Um, so, where's Sherlock?"

"He's just over there, dear. Harassing the nurse for information again. He's been in a right state; I'll go and fetch him."

He was at my side almost immediately but wasn't sure what to say.

"John."

"I think I'll leave you boys to it."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson" He sat down in the chair that she had previously vacated. "Look. Are you sure you feel okay? The bullet was … If it had been an inch to the left …"

This time I reached out for his hand.

"I'm fine." He smiled weakly and we sat for a moment holding each other's gaze. _It was worth a wound – it was worth many wounds – to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask._

"Don't do that to me again."


End file.
